


Moments

by IrreWilderer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, smooches, subtle yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Affectionate Moments Meme Fills for Inquisitor Ma'ven/Solas. Drabbles' ratings range from General to Explicit.<br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>Chapter One - A Sweet Kiss | Chapter Two - A Scared Kiss | Chapter Three - A Kiss of Relief | Chapter Four - A Morning Kiss | Chapter Five - Drink Me | Chapter Six - Zip Me | Chapter Seven - Quiet Me | Chapter Eight - Tell Me | Chapter Nine - A Distracting Kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet

She had started with a simple one. The sweetness burst tints of a soft dawn across Solas’s tongue, which was a mercy for the black of sightlessness he was suffering. Symphonies of paled pink and orange played together, swam before his stunted vision, and swirled about his taste buds. The painter with the incomparable palate found it difficult to define the flavor beyond shades he might find on his artist’s palette, so he let the nectar wash over him what visual delights it would while he tasted the essence of the colour, realized its rich, thick contours, and wondered how he might capture it on canvas.

“Peach,” he proclaimed. From in the dark, beyond her hand held over his eyes, there came a giggle.

“That was an easy one. See if you can guess the next one.”

Solas knew it by scent before he knew it by taste. Lazy summer winds often brought with it the heady smell of mouth-watering rapture recognized in the little white flowers which brought to bear bright red strawberries, whose bouquet was unmistakable. Fresh, grassy; like the greenery these explosions of sweet-tart-perfection were often bedded in. But then the taste came, too, and Solas begged more; laved his tongue along flesh so strong with its flavor that his mouth ached and jaw cried, both for more and for less of the sublime, delicious treat.

“Strawberry,” he rasped out, puckering his lips as he drooled slightly despite himself. Again, his lover laughed.

“That was probably easier than the peach. This next one, though, you watch: I’m going to stump you.”

And she almost did, for the taste was soft, subtle; not so nearly overwhelming as the rest. Neither its smell nor flavor hit the back of the throat like peculiar peach or obvious strawberry. But she bit into the apple with all the gusto of a hungry child, and her gluttony cost her the game. The loud, crisp crack of the fruit rang through the room like any hardy thing brought to ruin, and the moment his lover touched her juice-stained lips to his, and dipped her tongue into his mouth for a taste, Solas was smiling.

“You might have won, Ma’ven, if you had covered my ears rather than my eyes,” he pointed out with a chuckle.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve been winning from the start,” insisted his lover.

After a quick nuzzle of her nose upon his, she kissed him deep, and slow, and Solas sighed into it as his appetite was piqued for this sweetest kiss of all.


	2. Fear

The unassuming stone spilled his secret for all to see. But, like Solas himself, omission saved him from the questions, and scrutiny, and painted his greatest fear as so simple a thing that he seemed no better or worse than the rest.

He was not alone in side-eyeing the others as they paced the graveyard. He shared in their shame. Like Cassandra, or Blackwall, his eyes flitted to his fellow companions, fell downcast shortly after, but no one had time for discrimination when busied with the guilt of being fallible.

There was comradery in having his deepest horror laid bare like them. There was something tangibly reassuring in the firm feel of the rocky surface skimming subtly beneath his fingertips. As Solas touched over the grave marker, perceived the Fade’s knowledge of him swell and crash upon his consciousness, he thought how small one man’s fear was compared to the immeasurable anguish of an age wrought by the mistakes of his own hand. Until he saw Ma’ven.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he answered. “As you command.”

The light in her eyes quieted, but was not quelled by this terse, stress-inspired decorum. She looked shyly at the ugly rock running rampant with insight she would have never gleamed otherwise, yet instead of sighing, or gasping, that light in her eyes steeled like a blade made for meeting a challenge.

She said nothing, though. Ma’ven only turned back from the grave, took his hand from the stone, and tickled it by the beat of her pulse.

In the moment of his lover looking over the grave, Solas was a just man. He was no thing of half-truths finding camouflage among beleaguered battle-mates. He was simply _Dying Alone_ standing beside _Himself_ and _Helplessness_ , and the purity of this was overwhelming. He was man, not a god, with his hand held snug by the woman who had his heart. He was an agent of the Inquisition dedicated to doing nothing further than destroying Corypheus. And that was the most frightening thing of all.

“Alright.”

As Ma’ven loosened her grip, to leave so that she might lead the company, Solas held harder at her hand. A gut reaction he hadn’t meant to make, but there it was in the whites of his knuckles. Ma’ven turned back immediately.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

The way her arms found their way around his waist; how she looked at him: things were not alright. To put off his efforts for a chance to be with her would lead only to a few years of happiness, not the eternity she deserved. To leave her so that he might fix his mistakes and give her the world she should have – it would end the same. Either option promised more of the same: Solas dying alone.

Hawke, Stroud, and the rest of the Inquisition was waiting. The demon who ruled here was waiting. Corypheus and the war was waiting for her, and he didn’t care. Solas grimaced against her lips under the pretense of a kiss as he pressed hastily against Ma’ven. She tasted like hope. She tasted like honey on toast and sweet things; breakfasts together, bedding together, and a hundred other beautiful things he would lose not matter what Solas chose to do. When Ma’ven pulled away, the man’s heart nearly broke. And as the company moved on, the Fear demon found his appetite near sated in Fen’harel.


	3. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Kiss of Relief

The relief of drawing breath after drowning was comparable to the hurried kiss which came moments after she had been drowning.

Her eyes wrenched open. His eyes watched. The air of her lungs was his living, no matter that he tasted a strange subjugation on her lips. The swell of Mythal was within her, and Solas could feel it as she lay in his arms before flailing, finding her footing, and pushing him away.

Never before had she pushed him away in their time of courtship. Never. And now she was walking away as well.

Ma’ven’s consciousness swam with a draught of ancient magic, ears sang for the sea-song of memory, but Solas was left to battling a current she could not fathom. It was the old fight; a turbulence which wrought foam and hardship to crashing on the shore of his mind. In this place of sentinels who had seen Arlathan, Solas felt at home and Solas felt lost. So he asked “how do you feel?” in the hopes that his love might anchor him to one or the other. She only shook her head in answer – _no_ – still dazed from it all. Very soon after they were running from Corypheus.

Like phosphorescent oil spilling patterns over the surface of a pond, the eluvian bloomed out swimming light before the witch put it to rest. The Inquisitor was given room – the whole room, in fact, and only Solas and she remained.

She looked at him. She gasped for air.

“Hold me.”

Ma’ven had breathed ragged and short as soon as the others had left, and now she shook in his arms. Solas wanted to tell her she had been stupid, and brave. Solas wanted to tell her the worth and cost of her sacrifice, but he only kissed her, and when she kissed back, desperate and trembling, all the sinking in his chest subsided. Even if she was afraid, even as she nearly ripped the cotton of his shirt as she clung, all this terror was hers. It was not Mythal’s. She was not Mythal’s – not yet – and this kiss of whimpering was true relief.

Solas carried her to bed.


	4. Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows 'Quiet' (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5896996)

The tavern had offered no more than a musty mattress of last season’s straw to sleep in, and a scrap of days-old bake for their breakfast bread. While it had offered this, it had given less. The thin blanket proved entirely inadequate in the wake of the hearth dwindling to nothing through the night. Dawn came grey, bleak, and bleary between curtains that had yellowed by time and tobacco smoke. An old woman down the hall was coughing to retching, and the smell of grease was thick in the pillow upon which his head rested. The tavern was terrible. His sleep had been awful.

Solas could not remember ever having been so entirely content.

Yes, his senses were assaulted, and his body felt broken from a lump that had carved into his back. He was frozen from the cool Free Marches’ weather, and his neck ached from tensing in his shivering. But as he turned onto his side and sent the mattress’s inside rustling rudely, he saw the Inquisitor in deep, silent slumber.

Solas had come to Wycome to lend a hand to a being of determination and mercy. And he would be leaving with a woman of morning-breath and drool. Because she was drooling. But just a little.

Chuckling, Solas propped himself up on his side. He wanted too… yet it was so _forward_. Permission had not been granted, she deserved a few minutes more of sleep; Solas wasn’t sure if it was acceptable. Above all—

He brushed his fingers down her cheek, anyways. Ma’ven stirred.

Solas wanted to pull her in, but he would wait this time. He watched while the woman’s lashes fluttered prior to unfolding. For a memorable second, Ma’ven’s eyes alighted with nothing but love. They went in and out of focus, but the recognition was unmistakable as they raked over his freckled cheeks and gaze and mouth. Then she started thinking, and everything from the day before fell on her like all the weight of the world.

“Hush.”

Her lips had started to work, but he would not allow it. Words were going to begin describing the reasoning for her little tears, yet Solas saw no need of that. Not yet.

_Not so long as this morning lasts._

“But is this what you want? I feel like with everything that has happened—“

Solas cupped her face; pillowed his thumb on her trembling lips.

“If there are reservations, they are yours,” Solas insisted tenderly. “For I have none.”

Ma’ven looked away. Solas snatched his hand back. Dread howled hard in his heart.

“I do. One.” Ma’ven sighed. “My clan is dead. But I’m _happy_.”

He kissed her. That hurt was hers, she deserved to deal with it as she would, but trading sorry glances with the ceiling was not good enough for his beloved. Solas’s lips found her cheek while his ears found the beat of her heart. It thrummed. It cried. It sang in his mouth as hers met his. Solas tasted the thoughtlessness of bliss in her, and hoped she did she same.

When he pulled away, and Ma’ven blinked blearily, Solas knew he needn’t hope.

“Good morning,” she smiled.

“Good morning,” he replied.

It was the first morning kiss they shared as a couple.


	5. Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is there for Ma'ven after the attack on Haven. Prompt fill for "Drink Me"

It tasted like winter. Maybe this was the fault of an unpolished palate, but given the circumstances, there was probably just no better way to describe it. Going down her throat, the liquid felt like falling out of the aravel to get a morning fire started, her fingers already burning from the frigid cold in the dead of a Haring dawn. Passing her lips, she might as well have been drinking a thinly iced pond now cracking, now crying, giving way to her weight and she was under. It stole her breath in sips like never having enough blankets, never being able to curl up close enough to Deshanna for warmth, and never having enough layers to wear. It tasted like… like…

_Haven was gone._

A heavy, hollow cough echoed out her throat as her mind came back to her body. Head snapping up, she choked and sputtered on whatever steel-flavored restorative someone had slowly been dripping passed her lips. Haven was gone and it tasted like that. All those calm afternoons in the mountain air, the conversations about chilly temperatures, and flasks of whiskey passed around to warm the blood: easy things, good people, dead and buried under an avalanche of snow and ice, and she tasted it all. Wandering the Frostbacks, _somebody find me_ : it was bitter, cold and sad.

Thankfully, she was no longer lost. And she was no longer alone.

“Solas,” Ma'ven wheezed while staring at the blurred figure slowly becoming straight and solid lines. “That… is the worst thing… I’ve ever tasted. Oh, I need to spit.”

It didn’t want to stay down, whatever it was he’d been giving her. A fluttering heartbeat heralded the need to vomit, but she felt a warm hand reach out and wander over her forehead, check her temperature, fall to her cheek; what was that? Solas’s fingers were cupping the side of her face and then they weren’t.

“Every drop, Ma'ven. Adan left strict instructions.”

A mug was in her grip. Taking a little more, she started feeling things again beyond the terrible memories. There was the closeness of the tent walls, the ache in her back, the strains in her leg muscles. Sitting up was getting tiring already, but she had to drink it. Adan had said so.

“So he’s alive,” Ma'ven realized wearily, looking up with a lopsided smile. She was too exhausted to smile straight, but she certainly had things to smile about. Well, one thing, at least. “And you. You’re alive. Solas is alive.”

“And many others, thanks to your efforts,” Solas reported from his knees-folded position beside her legs. “The loss of Haven is regrettable, but it could have been far worse.”

“You know, I don’t think I was the only one fighting that… that…” Another sip of her disgusting draught was worth it to avoid naming that blighted corruption. Once it was down, she sighed. “I wasn’t the only one fighting. You were there. Cassandra was there. What am I drinking, anyways?”

He had bone structure built for subtle bemusement. Smirking softly, Solas’s face warmed with a grin. “Something to safeguard against hypothermia. Elfroot, witherstock and embrium, I believe.”

“And not a thing for taste, I can tell you,” Ma'ven said before forcing herself to drink more. She made a face, shivered, sniffed. “Why are you in here? Why not Adan?”

“Because my bedside manor is incomparable,” Solas answered. “And he cannot summon a ball of fire at will.”

“Can you imagine if he could?” Ma'ven snorted as her eyes rounded in sleepy amusement. “We’d be putting out fires all over Haven! Every time something made him angry, which is everything, we’d have to-” Oh. Right. “We would have had to go running after him. Oh, Creators. It’s all gone, Solas. All of it.”

“I know,” he mourned with her. “But the camps are full. Many lives were saved.”

“It was Haven,” Ma'ven said sadly. “It was home. I’m still cold.”

“Then finish your cup.”

It was emptied, returned.

“Worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Rest, Herald. Lay back.”

She was only hearing things now, as the suggestion of sleep became more appealing and her lids beckoned with the reward of thoughtlessness and forgetfulness. Haven wouldn’t be gone in her dreams.

Little flicks of warmth from Solas’s fingers smoothed over forehead and that’s what did it. Sleep might bring the comfort of nothing, but she didn’t want to be alone until then.

“Stay,” she rasped out drowsily. “Do you have any stories about the Fade?”

And Solas stayed. He stayed until Ma'ven was asleep, and he was sure another slow caress across her cheek would not be noticed. Then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally published 2016-01-26. moving some of my old prompt-fills to this series.


	6. Viridian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan needs help dressing for a meeting during Winter Palace peace-talks, and Solas lends his expertise. Prompt fill for "Zip Me"

Dawn had broken. Pink and pearly sunbeams lazed through low-hanging clouds and lit the Winter Palace’s windows. Hardly anyone except the elven serving staff was awake, and the Inquisitor, distracted with dressing for her early duties, startled when Solas slipped into the room.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

Ma’ven’s heart thrummed prismatic like the wing of a hummingbird. After all, Solas dressed in something suitable for court was an exhilarating sight. His silhouette had become the very picture of grace, with a high collar elongating his neck and golden cuffs collecting sleeves of sheer satin. The vest, dark pine, was accented with silver leaf motifs, and the subtle flash of a ring at the fingers went not unnoticed.

After weeks in Halamshiral, Ma’ven was nearly accustomed to seeing him like this. The Inquisition’s stay in Orlais hadn’t been a quick in-and-out visit just to stop an assassination. There were protocols and etiquette, and days passed before Celene’s masquerade even took place. In that time, the Inquisition had been a guest of the Winter Palace, and everyone was acting (and dressing) accordingly. Nonetheless, it was still surprising how naturally the finery of damask fit Solas’s tall frame to the stature of a king.

His steps came so surely across the floor; leathered boots in shades of mahogany, tapping out the announcement call of something more powerful than an apostate and more dangerous than all his practised courtesy. One day, perhaps, Solas would say what that was. For now, his cloak of secrecy was outshone by the crown of love Ma’ven had placed upon his head. Whatever kept him silent didn’t matter.

“Good morning to you,” the Inquisitor returned with a little smile. “You know, dressed in all that, you look even prettier than I do.”

“Impossible,” Solas answered. “Did you sleep well?”

Holding back a frustrated huff, Ma’ven returned to the task of scrutinizing her image caught in the tri-fold mirror. “Not really, no.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t _his_ attire she had to be concerned with.

She was on a mission as important as any action taken against Corypheus. It was making her sweat and sigh and swear under her breath. And no matter how frustrating it was becoming, she had to endure.

The Inquisitor needed to choose an outfit.

While ignorance of Orlesian infrastructure might spell disaster as she witnessed the peace-talks, so too could the wrong choice of shoes. The Inquisitor had never expected to be thrown into the conversation between Celene, Briala and Gaspard, and admittedly she was somewhat out of her depth. Thankfully, her presence was mainly a matter of publicity.

Ma'ven was the new darling for having saved Celene’s life (‘and with such dramatic zeal!’ sighed the crowd). Josephine, utterly elated, was convinced that this invitation would cement the Inquisition’s legitimacy in Orlais. As such, Skyhold was at least another two weeks away. The Ambassador and the Spymaster had done an admirable job of setting up an office to work from, but it was tricky trying to act as a separate organization when under the roof of the Empress of Orlais. It would be too easy to commit treason by signing a pact – or even communicating – with the wrong people. Generally, Ma’ven’s time was spent sitting with comtes while toy dogs yapped at their heels.

And now she was cycling through what was considered appropriate for a breakfast meeting. Some of it was too much and most of it not enough, so despite how much Ma'ven wanted to wear the dress she was in (it was so very fancy, and so very blue), it was likely that if she did wear it, Orlais’s political framework might crumble.

It would probably crumble regardless. Nothing looked right. At least, not until Solas approached from behind and wrapped his hands around her waist. His body, as always, was a perfect fit.

“I had maybe four hours of sleep, if I’m lucky.” Falling deep against his chest, feigning bored exasperation, Ma'ven watched as Solas placed a kiss upon her ear and followed it with a nip. “My elven serving man kept me up most of the night. He had too much wine and got a little rowdy.”

“You should speak to Empress Celene about her staff,” Solas suggested while staring into her eyes from the mirror. “Such incompetence has clearly inconvenienced you. It is deserving of punishment.”

“That’s a good point.” Ma'ven’s gaze sparkled at the insinuation. “I agree completely.”

Solas chuckled. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I did not intend to stay so late.”

As the man rested his head in the nook of her neck, Ma'ven brushed back over his brow with her fingertips. “It was worse when you left, emma lath. It always is.”

They stood and held one another, existing only in those fleeting moments of world stillness and beating hearts. The dawn did not envelope them, they _were_ the dawn: quiet, comfortable, but ready to wake and leave the land of dreams. Still, just as it is difficult to abandon the warmth of bedsheets, it was nearly impossible to part from this embrace. Solas was her late mornings snuggled up in quilts, evenings under blankets with a book, and nights of rumpled sheets, damp with sweat and wanting.

He seemed of a similar mind at the moment. Solas’s hands wandered over Ma’ven’s body, and played with pieces of her dress while exploring the changes to her landscape as it was draped in bright blue batiste. Where before the sight of him had her heart fluttering, now Ma’ven’s chest was softly heaving. Then Solas spoke.

“You aren’t wearing this to your engagement, are you?”

Ma'ven, with eyes still closed, frowned. Her words came as slow as someone testing thin ice. “No. Why? What’s wrong?”

Moving away, Solas stood beside the mirror and the couple went back to business. “The colour. The cut. Surely Madame de Fere did not make such an oversight as this neckline.”

“She did not,” Ma'ven confirmed. The woman hadn’t felt this suspicious since Blackwall turned out to be an expert on cheese. “Vivienne left very thorough written instructions. Which I used as a bookmark to a book I’ve now lost. I remember some of what was said, though. Mostly things about ruffles on the shoulder and the colours of petticoats.” Ma'ven’s tone changed to suggestive curiosity. “Whatever I’ve forgotten, of course, it seems you can clarify it for me. Which I find very intriguing.”

Solas looked completely innocent.

“I have seen it often in the Fade: countless nations defining greatness by the gild of golden buckles. It is the simplest and most obvious way for the powerful to distinguish themselves from the poor. There is much to be learned in measuring the height of the master’s heel again their servant’s slipper.”

"You and Leliana could bring down the country with your knowledge of fashion details,” the Inquisitor remarked. “Dorian would probably help on principle, if you want an extra hand.”

“Tevinter’s customs of costume where it concerns the master-slave dynamic are even more demeaning,” Solas pointed out. He was ramping up for another ramble, and it left Ma'ven smiling proudly; lovingly. Every lecture given was a lesson on Solas’s profound observations. It would be easy to listen to him for hours, if she ever had the time. Because it wasn’t simply what he thought, but _how_ he thought: with his heart. Solas felt every bit of pity for those who were worthy of sympathy, and showed great distaste for the villains that deserved it. He thought with his heart much more than he thought with his mind.

Recognizing the look on his lover’s face, Solas cleared his throat. “But I am becoming distracted. And our time is precious this morning. Which room are you to meet in?”

The question seemed an odd one.

“We had breakfast there last week. The one with bloodstone in the marble.” Ma’ven followed his quick step towards the armoire and trunks where her clothing was kept.

"A lack of natural light, as I recall. And a rather garish shade of green on the walls.” Standing before the hanging garments cluttering the polished oak armoire, Solas seemed almost lost to her. “Dark viridian with cream, perhaps.”

This was no different than watching him flit from volume to volume, attempting to suss out something to do with the Fade or the Veil. His eyes were keen, his movements short and deliberate, and everything Solas did seemed purely to suit a purpose. Which, of course, made Ma’ven wonder.

“Why is the room important?”

He made that face which always followed her persistent, varied questions.

“Gaspard’s natural complexion is sallow. He would look sickly in such a room. Celene could question his ill-health and discredit his competency, therein gaining ground. No doubt she has made this choice deliberately.”

Ma’ven actually laughed. “Really? You mean it, don’t you? Would that work?”

“I am certain Briala would corroborate her claims,” Solas nodded, now parting through the articles to expose certain items. “I’ve heard the room was renovated with the elven ambassador in mind. At a time when she and the Empress were still intimate.”

“Maybe there is still affection between them,” the Inquisitor suggested. “Maybe Celene desires a truce?”

“Or perhaps it is a reminder of the Empress’s power, regardless of your efforts to mediate. This one, vhenan!”

Carefully bringing out what looked like a heap of blue-green gossamer with black trimming, Solas carried it to the bed, leading the way for Ma'ven to follow.

“Why this one?” The Inquisitor couldn’t wait to hear how this dress in particular was going to keep the peace between feuding cousins and a jilted lover.

“Put it on, and I will explain.”

The old dress was soon in a heap at her heels, making way for the new one: a creation of three delicate layers of transparent voile. The bottom shift of burnt vanilla covered her arms, the second layer was dark sea green and hung from her bust, and over this came the final skirt of viridian with its elaborate black embroidery. The embellishment worked over much of the dress and brought it together, as all the colours were felt and seen, and the dress begged to be offset by black sapphire and garnets.

Solas wasn’t subtle as the Inquisitor dressed. Ma’ven watched him brazenly rake his gaze over her body as she pulled the whole thing over her head. Unable to keep his hands away, the man adjusted the layers so that they fell properly, but he did so as respectfully as possible. Then he stood back.

  
The colours were outstanding. The make was exquisite. But it was so different from the Orlesian-styled dresses with their complicated hoops and corsets. She had to know.

“So why this one?”

Solas, head tilted and eyes drifting between Ma’ven’s breasts and her stomach, straightened his posture.

“What room is there for argument when in the presence of something so beautiful?”

Ma’ven snorted. Solas smiled, but not for long.

“It is elven. As elven as the Orlesians will allow. Their standards do not permit much luxury where our kind is concerned, and it will remind Briala of who you are; what you are: an elf. So too will it demonstrate to Celene that you concede to her rule. The night of the masquerade, you proved your might by going bare-faced and maskless while wearing the uniform of the Inquisition. With your authority established, now show that they can find an ally.” Moving her in front of the mirror once more, Solas stood tall behind her, eyes burning beyond his otherwise somber façade. His hands did not fall from her upper arms, and his grip was strong.

“What about Gaspard?” The Inquisitor asked.

“There is a rumour the Duke is afraid of you,” Solas answered.

Still his stare smoldered, and now Ma’ven was able to identify with what. It was the heat of hunger kindled with pride and fed by greed. It seemed he had not yet completely sobered of the previous evening’s impertinence, and Creators how it made the woman shiver. What had he said before? What were those words which rang so often in her ear these days? Something about the heady blend of intrigue and power.

“I suppose,” the Inquisitor suggested pragmatically, “if I put my hair up, no one would notice how tousled it was.”

After carefully draping Ma’ven’s dress over the back of a chair, Solas was hardly so gentle with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally published 2016-02-01. moving some of my old prompt-fills to this series.


	7. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clan Lavellan is dead and the Inquisitor has returned to the Free Marches. Solas attempts to comfort her. Prompt fill for "Quiet Me"

Before them lay days of travel through winter cold and delaying snow. But they had their duty and rode hard: first north, then east, then north once more. Thedas had much ground to cover, and the elements were not kind. Worse was the lack of aid when a fresh mount was needed, even if they would pay. It seemed the chill had frozen all banks of charity, despite the fact that the petitioners were on an errand of the Inquisition.

“Cold cuts to cracks; shivers shake and wrack to wrecking. The horse eats better than she does.”

Solas, with Cole in tow, trudged back to their own Dalish All-Bred. By the heaving of her sides, the mare would not be able to carry them much further.

“And does she garner sympathy for her disrespect of a knife-ear because of the way she treats her livestock?”

His disgust was hardly hidden. The racist comment, coupled with the reason they were travelling at all, thoroughly defeated Solas in new ways he hadn’t thought possible. Of course, Cole did not need of tone of voice to tell him anything: neither that of the elf’s frustrations, nor the mind of the short, frail woman who had scowled out from beneath her shawl.

“A little hand doesn’t squeeze back in the dark like it should.”

Solas sighed.

Through Fereldan’s winter they fled for the coast, and from there took a cargo ship to the Free Marches. The weather was mild and calm, and what rain there was came lightly and sweet. Golden fields and sunny days would not fool the elf, however. Not even when they received a generous ride from a passer-by while walking the long, dusty roads.

The driver of the apple cart was a quaint young woman with a headscarf the colour of bluebells. She insisted on both Solas and Cole having their fill of the fruit, which was being taken to her uncle for market. Had they heard of her father’s famous produce? Had they ever tasted something so sweet? Her questions were as innocent as the natural rouge of her round cheeks. Cole appeared to be confused by this woman, this Anya: there was nothing in her that needed to be healed. But taking an apple seemed to make her happier, so Cole ate three on the ride and put more in his pockets when she suggested it.

Solas ate none. He held the fruit, inspected it like a scientific thing, but he wouldn’t dare touch it to his lips. There was a worm in the apple of the Free Marches. And although it was dead, the path it had eaten through the lives of good people could still be traced. The worm was The Duke of Wycome, and that was where they were headed.

Wycome, on the sea, smelling of salt, sailors, spice and dirty money. It was a port town, after all: bribery was part of its charm. But there was something so much more sinister at work than corrupt offices and paid-off dock laborers. This evil came at the edges of their leering eyes as two strangers walked down a main street that smelled of sickness.

“Are we safe?” Solas asked quietly while passing the people in puddled streets. These peasants all appeared to have been cut from the same cloth, and it was dirty, dark, and dragging through the mud.

Cole considered the question.

“They saw her. White light through the red; their wells whet like templars’ water. Poisoned, pointing fingers, panicked. They killed the elves but are afraid of one. If they want to kill you, I… can make them forget.”

“Thank you,” Solas nodded. Someone bumped hard into his shoulder. “Perhaps we should hurry.”

Within all of five minuets, Cole had led him to the Ten Fish Tavern. When the Inquisitor opened the door to her rented room, she was trembling.

“Solas?” she whispered weakly.

The man hardly recognized her. Ma’ven’s customary attire, crafted in such a way that human nobles wouldn’t see her as elven, had gone. Now she wore clothing which could be described in no way but elven. Loose fabrics meant to celebrate the lithe figure of The People, a high close collar and colours of the earth: all conspired to create the image of what the Dalish thought to be tradition. Solas didn’t care. The Inquisitor was not half-remembered ideals of beauty, nor was she the poor translation of broken legends. She was simply…

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted formally and warmly, feeling taller than he normally did. “May we come in?”

There was unmistakable thankfulness in her eyes, even as she considered his request with confusion. “We?”

Cole was already standing in the middle of the room behind her.

“Hello,” he said.

“You came, too?” Ma’ven moved back to allow Solas some room. The light laugh in her voice was genuine, but strained. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I wanted to help. I saw where the pain went, so I followed.” The spirit’s voice dropped darkly from the boy’s pale lips. “Solitary soul: lost, last and lonely. Veiled, mourning; them and you. You didn’t know what would happen! You did your job and then they died, but you’ll fight forgiveness and favor the fault. Blame is easier to bare than love – but it’s not.”

Mouth hanging slightly ajar, Ma’ven was visibly shaken. With a little cough, her hands smoothed down her skirt as though working out the wrinkles might hide the lines around her eyes. Other than that, she was trying very hard to seem serene, and it was nearly convincing.

“Cole, I—“ Clearing her throat, she started again. “I appreciate your wanting to help me, but it’s not necessary. The blame… Well. I know there’s nothing I could have done for them.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

Solas’s eyes widened.

“Cole. If the Inquisitor and I might have a moment?”

The man was shocked by the spirit’s words. It was true that he’d wanted Cole’s assistance, but not like this: not to help _him_. When he went to give the spirit a thankful yet stern nod, Cole was gone.

“There’s red lyrium here,” Ma’ven said immediately. Straight to the hard facts, so she could ignore the soft sentiments. “That’s what the sickness was. The Duke was purposely poisoning the water, as far as I can tell. The people didn’t know the dangers, and blamed the elves for his assassination. I’ve… been to the camp.”

Solas watched as her memory moved over smashed aravels, slaughtered halla, and little bodies huddled under bigger ones. Ma’ven couldn’t look at him, but she couldn’t look anywhere else, so she wrenched her eyes shut and turned her back on him.

“You shouldn’t have come. I am thankful, but you shouldn’t have come. I don’t…”

She sighed and sighed again. Once more. Another. Heavy breaths were all she could manage as she tried to form words; to get them off her tongue which had become thick with pain.

“Inquisitor?”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Solas sighed, too.

“When last we spoke, you offered sympathy. Compassion. Did you not think I would return it in kind?” He took a step forward, straightening his posture. “You said I had no need to mourn alone. Then you left without a word. To grieve.”

“It isn’t the same Solas. I’m sorry.” Her arms were wrapped around herself, but it seemed strength was returning to her tone. Ma’ven found fortitude in the solidity of her duty. “I am the Inquisitor. This… I shouldn’t have come, either. This was a mistake. Josephine and I argued. Cullen yelled. And they were both right. There wasn’t time for me to come here! And how dangerous! You should be angry with me for that. For putting the Mark in harm’s way.”

“I haven’t yet had the chance,” Solas said with a touch of humour. “But I will.”

“They’re all gone, though.”

She fell quiet now. There was no sound but Solas’s feet slowly coming closer.

“Inquisitor.”

“No one cares. And I keep thinking how we should be on the Storm Coast. They deserve better. They deserved better.”

“Lethallan.” He was close enough to smell her clothes and the body beneath. When she turned around, Solas took a step back, creating a respectful distance.

“I am the Inquisitor,” Ma’ven repeated with anger in her eyes. “And I have a duty to more than just one… one clan.”

The way she looked at him, she was begging him to tell her different. To say anything. And she was so angry at herself.

_What were you like? Before the anchor?_

He’d been wondering for days now. Before he and Cole had left Skyhold, as Solas had sat in the rotunda surrounded by books: the only words he kept reading over were those across his own mind. But he couldn’t ask now. Not when whatever she’d been before the anchor was in ashes.

“We should go. Return to Skyhold,” Ma’ven sighed, too exhausted to sustain her self-hate. “I came to give funeral rites, but I don’t think I can go back. I shouldn’t go back. The Inquisition needs me, not, well. The dead.”

She was shaking.

It was something Solas couldn’t bear. Cole’s words rang again in his ear, and worse than that: the Inquisitor’s reaction. She’d been so sure the spirit’s insights had been meant for her. His longing was her loneliness. Everyone she knew was gone. Solas’s world had long fallen away, too, and he’d had a millennium to mourn, but then… there was her, telling him with less than a look what he’d ached to know for so long.

“You are not alone.”

Ma’ven’s heart broke at his words. She shoved her hands over her face to hide her crying, but of course the sobs were loud and horrible. There were groans, angry and grating, directed at herself for what she had failed to do, and for crying at all. If she had been able to manage words, she would have probably asked Solas to leave. But…

_I have not forgotten the kiss._

It wasn’t so bad if Solas admitted it to himself. In fact, in so doing it made this alright. Because he could take her in his arms and quiet her, and that was all it had to be. Just him, a friend, holding her, his friend. As she moaned against his chest, as he smoothed a hand over her back, as she balled his shirt and he kissed her crown—

Ma’ven pushed back, wide-eyed with the bright stars of wonder beyond her tears. She kept looking at his lips, every time her gaze growing softer. And now she was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted 2016-02-04. moving some of my old prompt-fills to this series.


	8. She Deserved Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas’s thoughts as he and Lavellan travel towards Crestwood, where he’s decided he will tell the Inquisitor everything. Prompt fill for "Tell Me"

_Spirits like spiders spinning gossamer blue-green. They threaded in and out a version of the Veil that didn’t quite cover, but wore like lace letting light through as sea tints tingled on the skin. It was some place in-between, as dawn is morning and evening is night. The Fade didn’t bleed through here; it whispered kisses from soft lips, and tickled with the tips of fingers which fell into caressing._

_“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.”_

_The words were close; honeyed confessions gathered despite stings of truth. And while a spoonful might have sweetened, Solas wanted Ma'ven to drink to the dregs, see what was left, and respond. If she ran, if she recoiled, if she balked and turned away, he would deserve it. But if she nodded, smiled, held him and **knew** … How Solas longed to rest without shackles; to stretch out the stiffness of dishonesty and be free. Bruises left by the binding of his lies would be soothed by the Inquisitor’s tender hands, because Solas knew, beyond doubt and beyond belief, that she would—_

“Apples or pears?”

Blinking, Solas messaged a hand over his brow which had become sore with tensing.

“Pardon?”

“Apples or pears?”

The afternoon had finally shaken off the last airs of a dreary morning. People were moving about to inspect the baskets full of produce from the Allger family farm, and the Inquisitor, dressed so prim in her peasant’s bodice and skirt, had returned to Solas’s side. In one palm lay a golden treat of grainy, juicy pleasure, and in the other sat a hardier fruit as red as rich, dark wine.

“Oh. I—”

Solas hadn’t expected to be caught unawares. His mind was lingering perpetually as they traveled the roads together, slowly ambling towards Crestwood. ‘Ambling’ wasn’t quite right, though. The Inquisitor had much to do upon returning from this short respite, so she was keeping them on a fairly strict schedule. A stop at a road-side market of various stalls certainly hadn’t been on the list, but she’d gasped, wrung her hands, and then Solas was left by himself as Ma’ven jogged over, her wrapped feet kicking up the dust.

“If I stand here any longer, they’ll think I’ve stolen them,” the woman suggested wryly. Glancing back over her shoulder, she giggled. “And their little daughter was very insistent that I don’t steal them. She asked three times. Her pronunciation was so precious! And you see should her hair; how her mother braided it — so beautiful.”

Solas chuckled. “Pears, Ma'ven.”

The Inquisitor returned to make her purchase.

Three days nearer their destination and Solas’s heart wouldn’t stop beating like a drowning man battling the current. In fact, he could hardly see the surface for all his fear. To confess that he was Fen'harel, the great adversary in her people’s mythology, put not only him at risk, but also the fragile fabric of reality, as so many people held onto their erroneous theories concerning the Fade. Ma’ven could believe him, and it could turn out terrible. She could not believe him, and that might be worse. Any of the dozens of outcomes would likely end in Solas being alone once more. But then, as though to convince him, Ma'ven would do something like gently put her hand in his, smile, pull him towards a road-side market, and…

Become distracted by talking with the locals about improving their economy.

“Oh, no, I understand the need for autonomy. I’m not talking about paying traders to come out here. There would be no taxes whatsoever. What I’m thinking is this—“

Solas sighed deeply. He could hear her suggestions for wooing merchants back from the larger cities, and promising to secure the roads under the protection of the Inquisition. Perhaps it would’ve been more romantic for her to have guided him somewhere serene and secluded, but were the sounds of rumbling cascades any better than this? Ma'ven vowing to enhance the conditions of a nigh impoverished community did more than convince him that he was doing the right thing. She deserved more. She deserved that he be better; that Solas no longer keep her in the dark. She absolutely deserved the best that he could give her.

_“For now, the best gift I can offer is the truth.”_

But not yet.

The Fade called once they had bedded down for the night. The land of dreaming was so like the land of the living for him; every memory of breeze or impression of sunshine asked that it grace her skin. So Solas went looking for Ma’ven. With the Anchor as bright as a beacon and her heartbeat as loud as a storm, it hardly took time to find her most nights, if she did not find him first. The latter case had proven problematic in the past, as Solas had things to hide in the layers of the Fade. But soon, and so soon, that would no longer be the case. And he would show her not what the elves had lost, or what they could one day be again, but he would show her that _Solas_ had never been a lie. There would be his home, his family: such precious things that he had shaken off to survive.

Perhaps he would show her tonight as they slept. Solas could place his hands over her eyes, hold Ma’ven close and tenderly with the dread that this may be the last time, and take her to the village of this youth. The spiral crystal cities, palaces of liquid glass, colours with no names but with shades that you could taste: those would come later. First, a memory of his parents, for he so longed to see them but had never had the strength to go alone.

  
The thought made the whole thing seem easier. Let the Fade speak for him, when the words were so hard brought to his lips. Let images paint a picture of what he’d been trying to show her in Skyhold’s rotunda. But Solas could not find his Inquisitor this night, so he could show her nothing.

“Vhenan?”

Ma’ven startled beside him. She sat cross legged, just as naked as he, reading over missives with broken crimson seals. There was a soft light falling like a golden haze within the tent; an illusion of sunset which Ma’ven had conjured so she could see.

“Are you alright?” she asked worriedly, feeling over his forehead as though he might be sick.

“Won’t you join me?”

“Soon, love,” the woman smiled softly. Still she caressed his brow. “There’s a few more things to read and respond to. I want to send them off to Leliana at the next town, but I won’t have time to do this in the morning. Go back to sleep. I’ll be there soon.”

Solas folded his hands upon his chest, closed his eyes, but found himself transfixed by the quill scratching out orders in Ma’ven’s audibly messy writing. Perhaps it was the fear that she would reject him when they reached Crestwood, but for now the man preferred the waking world. The Fade had not yet captured this moment of her head just so inclined, hair falling forward and utterly ignored, as she worked through petitions and reports which she had insisted she bring along.

And it was a revelation. Never, ever had he expected to find someone who could so capture his attention and hold him happily as a hostage to his own heart. The Fade was an endless bank of memories, feelings, emotions and sensations, but she was more. She was, without question, utterly and purely…

_“You are unique.”_

“Hm? What was that?”

Solas looked up, and in his surprise instinctively held harder at the hand in his. He truly needed to stop rehearsing things in his head.

“My apologies, Ma’ven. I was distracted.”

“Yes, I noticed. And, I think, talking to yourself. What’s wrong, Solas?”

Ma’ven looked so concerned before the backdrop of birch trees swaying in the breeze. They were walking; moving fast along their path, and they were so near Crestwood he could feel it.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

Ma’ven sighed, softened her gaze, and leaned into him. “You’ve been distant since we left. Is this not what you were expecting our little sabbatical would be like?”

Solas shook his head. “Not at all.” His words were misconstrued, if her piqued brow was any indication. “What I mean is…”

_“There is something I must tell you.”_

“There is something I must tell you.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened and they both stopped their paces, coming to face one another.

“What is it?” she asked when Solas said nothing.

And why not here? Why not in the middle of a dusty road where commerce trod and families traveled, and this was just another day of their lives which would be followed by another? Why was Solas so afraid of giving Ma’ven what she deserved; what she was owed by him, the man who was responsible for the Anchor eating away as her flesh? This was not about Solas; this was about putting her first. Before him and his selfish solitude, his obsession with clinging to protective silence and his… his duty.

Solas’s head tilted. His gaze grew cold for a moment — just a moment. Then it passed like the wind and the sunbeams.

“You look beautiful.”

Ma’ven snorted, rolled her eyes, tucked in under his chin, and sighed. Her body was as tense as his. Solas messaged across her lower back, and with his other hand threaded through her hair.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong when we get to Crestwood?” Ma’ven asked unconvinced against his chest.

“Yes,” Solas whispered desperately, now holding her as tight as he could. He shivered with the prospect of what would follow that evening: freedom, happiness; those things which made life worth living.

But Solas did not keep his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally published 2016-02-09.


	9. A Distracting Kiss

Before waking, Solas had been roaming the hills. Clothed in Fade made to recall a hermit’s mantle–cotton and old furs–he walked not far from where he lay in his plush, Skyhold bed. He saw the mountain trees in colours they hadn’t known for a season; watched buds blooming under a summer sun though his body slept in winter. But he realized, while in a world more profuse than the waking one, that he was not tired. As always there was curiosity like a hunger in him, but it wasn’t for what the Fade could express. While he commanded this place with a master’s precision, surprise was what he yearned for. Bewilderment; a test of senses. And nothing so surprised him as the people of Thedas.

It was late. But he’d presumed that. It had been dusk when he’d laid down. Leaving his room, he made for the rotunda. He crossed no one on his way, though he heard giggling ringing with elation. Drunken elation, given the time and cadence. Considering, he realized he recognized the accents: Leliana and Josephine, Spymaster and Ambassador, were having a nightcap. Their’s was company he’d seek were the library empty. Warily, of course–Leliana was sly. Josephine, sharp to say the least, drank more without motive, but Leliana used any opportunity to gather. Solas appreciated it. To a point. He’d learned over a bottle of Orlesian peach spirits, however, to watch himself around her. Josephine was sharp, but Leliana was as piercing as the glass holding her favorite vintage.

He went through the Great Hall, passed the door behind which the Inquisitor’s councilors could be heard. The Great Hall was cold. Upon arriving at the rotunda, there came his surprise. It was not how he’d left it. It was a mess.

Maps and papers were spread out about the floor. The desk was the source; the chaos-center. Many of the pages were covered in the same image: dots pressed hard and connected by spidering lines. A sextant lay to the left. An almanac was at the right, face down, pages splayed out beneath. Solas crept along the bare paths of stone towards the mayhem’s origin: Ma’ven, at his desk, working.

This was less a surprise. The Inquisitor was always working.

Her fingers began spurning a new piece of paper with thick ink blotches, in a pattern she’d repeated at least thirty times now. She was creating, again, the image seen all over the ground. He watched from a fair ways back, arms across his chest.

“She’s been at it for hours,” Dorian observed quietly. One hand rested on his hip, and the other motioned towards the mess. “Obviously. I went up after dinner for some light reading and fell into the most inspiring life-story you’ve ever heard. Orlesian prostitute. Couldn’t put it down. The dear girl included measurements, for Andraste’s sake. But the Inquisitor was here when I started, and she’s still here now. Doing… that.”

“And what would that be?” Solas wondered.

Their conversation didn’t go unnoticed.

“If you two aren’t going to help,” the Inquisitor called over, nose still hovering inches over her task, “then please be quiet. Or go find me parchment. I’m nearly out. Actually, yes, do that. Someone get me parchment, please.”

Solas and Dorian approached her in unison.

“What are you up to?” the Tevinter altus wondered. He placed a hand on the back of her chair, and dipped in closer. “Trying to out-do Solas when it comes to utterly tangled trains of thought no one else can have a hope of following?”

“Or perhaps you are attempting to do as Dorian,” Solas suggested shrewdly. “Beat a dead horse.”

“Wh— ” Dorian scoffed. “We don’t beat our dead horses! We reanimate them and make them race. Can’t tell you how much I’ve lost on that. Money, not horses.” The man’s eyes lit up. “We had stables when I was young, you know. But Father couldn’t stand the smell. I suppose he was so used to the waft of horseshit whenever he spoke that—”

“You two,” Ma’ven promised, still without looking up, “are the worse.”

“But what **are** you doing, Ma’ven?” Dorian asked again, this time more out of curiosity than a desire to parry cute insults with the apostate. “Solas has a point. This looks like thoroughness to the point of redundancy.”

“ _Perniciousness_ to the point of impasse, you mean,” Solas answered. “You’ve penned the same image again and again, vhenan. Perhaps it’s time you stepped away. You may approach it, whatever it is, in the morning.”

“Mm. Fresh eyes. Yes.”

Ma’ven hauled the chair backwards. Its legs squealed over the stone. Standing between them, she looked at Dorian first, her gaze full of gratitude for his humour and curiosity born from a keen mind. Then she looked at Solas. Her lips twitched while her eyes burned. His suggestion was worthy of attention for all the wisdom he had shared in the past, but more than that there wasn’t one word he spoke that she didn’t hear. If her ears stopped knowing the world’s sounds, her heart would still know his thoughts. She always listened, and trusted.

Sighing contentedly, Ma’ven looked back to the table. “No. That didn’t help.” She let a frustrated huff billow out her mouth.

Both Dorian and Solas laughed softly because they realized the woman fully accepted their criticisms. She had a smile, and a playfulness, when glancing at them again. Walking out along the paths of paper, Ma’ven pointed. “Bet you can’t tell that’s supposed to be a thunderbolt thrown by an angry god.”

Their brows shot up. Then furrowed.

“All this for the sake of a Frostback Basin astrarium?” Solas asked. “Where we are unlikely to soon return?”

Dorian was shaking his head. “I can’t necessarily say my curiosity has been satisfied. I was hoping for a much more titillating answer to the chaos. Something that involved waking up in the morning to find you crowing like a cock from the roof of the castle. Alas,” he sang, “it was only greed.” He smiled warmly. “Goodnight, you two.”

His step, step, stepping away echoed and disappeared, leaving the elves alone to the flicker of candles and silence. Solas could see Ma’ven was entranced by her task. She was looking from one copy of the thing she’d been drawing to another. The magic of the astrarium apparatus was complicated, depending on the constellation. One had to follow one star to a specific second, then third, etc., to unlock heavily warded treasure troves, which Solas admitted was usually worth the trouble. Not this kind of trouble, though.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ma’ven said quietly, her voice tired. “ _‘She sure is cute when she’s focused_ ’.”

“Quite correct,” Solas answered. He tiptoed over the papers, and smoothed a hand over her back. “Though this isn’t focus–it’s fanaticism.”

Ma’ven looked at him, jaw ajar. Then it closed. “I’ve just never found one of these I couldn’t crack. I went and laid down, but I kept trying to see the order they connect in and couldn’t sleep. Then I thought I had it, but you remember the trouble we ran into in the Dales: the stars had shifted. So I had the librarian help me with some almanacs, did some calculations, realized my math is horrible, and that I had no idea what I was doing, and… here we are. I’ve made a mess; I’m sorry.”

Solas chuckled. “Come with me. We’ll clean in the morning.”

He’d gotten to the door to the Great Hall before turning to see she hadn’t budged. Correction: she’d actually gone back to the desk and was again hunched over her half-finished attempt at coaxing an image from nothing.

“How is that even someone throwing a thunderbolt? I mean, a bird, maybe. Or an owl. Maybe the lore we have connected with this one is wrong? Would that even matter? No. Yes?”

The apostate walked over and placed himself behind her as she stood over the desk, a finger in her mouth, her mouth nibbling at the nail.

“Bed,” he whispered breathily, puffing hot air over her ear.

“Mm,” mumbled the Inquisitor.

Shaking his head, Solas brushed her waist. “Come.”

“I’d come a lot quicker if you helped me solve this,” Ma’ven answered with no hint of suggestion. She was too far gone to be lewd.

Breathing out his nose, Solas composed himself. There was only one way to deal with this stubbornness, and that was brutal, diversionary tactics. He spoke civilly; evenly. “I’ll attempt a solution. Though you may find my methods unusual.”

The woman glanced back at him quickly. “However you like, love. Although when I said I was almost out of parchment before? That was only kind of true. We’re out. Totally out.”

When she’d turned back to her work, Solas began his own. He dragged his tongue-tip up the crest of her ear, pinching the peak with his canines. Ma’ven’s whole body vaulted back against him, and his hands held her still at the hips.

“Solas! _Fenedhis!_ That isn’t helping.”

“Is it not?” he asked. He stooped and kissed down her soft, bare neck before stopping at her tunic collar. He could smell the day in Ma’ven’s hair: sweat, hearth smoke, and the faint memory of flower oils from her morning wash. “I offered aid on my terms, to which you conceded. However, without proper parchment, I’ll need compromise. You, vhenan, I will use as my vellum.”

He felt her sway at the suggestion of ‘use’. Solas pulled her back flush against his chest, and cupped Ma’ven’s chin with a finger to tilt her face, allowing him to lay claim to her mouth. He pressed only softly, sweetly, as she was completely compliant. She did not fight; she hummed, mewled; arched her back. Solas laved over her lips, his tongue working sloppily and easily, leaving a wet trail to cool in the air. However by inches she brushed him off, gasping, her eyes hazing and confused, her mouth slackened by surprise and desire.

“Not helping,” she repeated. “Solas, I– _Whew_. Tell me how leaving hickeys is supposed to figure this out?”

“Simple,” Solas grinned. His hands began with the clasps of her shirt. He spoke quietly in her ear. “For every star: a bruise or blemish left by my lips. My fingers will find your need: the connection between; taught and fragile. I’ll work your body to trembling resolution, Inquisitor.”

Ma’ven’s eyes almost rolled before she shook her head and the clouds gathering there. “Smooth-talker. I’m not going to be distracted by— ”

Solas, not entirely done with her tunic, grabbed her shoulders, forced her around to facing him, and, pressing hard in a deliriously possessive kiss, hoisted her up on the desk like she was nothing. Her legs wrapped around him; she ground into him and groaned as his fingers fisted her hair and continued with her shirt. With the last clasp freed, Solas immediately began working his mouth down her lithe neck muscles. She tasted like she smelled: smoke, salt; sweetness. Her sighing-sounds vibrated on his tongue as he licked and nipped the skin, the body beneath him all the while writhing and leaning back on the desk after brushing things away. Solas pinned her down with his weight, his hips cradled by hers, the heat between her legs obvious. Ma’ven helplessly moaned, and bucked.

He would not strip her naked here in the rotunda; in fact, he figured this charade to not be long-lived. Nonetheless, Solas kissed his way to her breast hidden beneath a band of fabric, and bit at the shadow of her nipple. Ma’ven’s legs kicked while he kept his mouth there, clamped down, breathing hard, leaving a damp spot. His left hand gripped one of her legs wrapped around him, and the other fondled the left breast with his fingertips in circles. Ma’ven began quietly repeating his name, which Solas took for calling. He returned to her mouth, parted her lips with his; ran his tongue along the bottom one before going deep. Ma’ven’s hands pulled him close. Both moaned as his clothed member pressed at her hot core; the rotunda echoed with the wet, fleshy sounds of lips parting, meeting, sighing; keening.

Gasping, stopping himself from debasing her further where anyone might walk in (which, though tempting, would be disastrous), Solas propped himself on his hands planted on either side of her waist. She looked up at him disheveled, sweating, and smiling, then sat up. Solas stood with her legs on either side of his thighs, her hands caressing affectionately over his stomach.

“Are you satisfied with my resolution to the astrarium?” Solas asked, vision a little distorted, jaw a little tired, whereas the rest of him was acutely alert.

Ma’ven nibbled her bottom lip, eyelids heavy. “Mm, not really, no. I was just thinking if I connect the third north-most star with this one over here, it might be the head of the angry god. So, nice try, but you’re going to have to work **much** harder if you want to distract me.”

Solas smiled toothily; wolfishly. Whether she was correct or simply teasing him, he found it riled him terrible. “That is precisely what I propose.” Solas leaned in lower, nose-tip to nose-tip. “Working you hard.”

The vernacular had his vhenan blushing and grinning wide, head stooping to hide the red at her cheeks. Suddenly, her eyes, which had fallen to the floor where the images of attempted constellations lay, grew round.

“Oh my gosh, Solas, I think I figured it out!”

The man’s brow shot up in pure, genuine surprise. “ _Really?_ ”

Ma’ven snorted. “No, not really. You’re very easy, you know?” She hopped off the desk, moving a little stiffly from the soreness of being crushed against the desk and supporting his weight. “Okay. Let’s go work me, or whatever. C’mon.”

Solas frowned in his attempt to keep from grinning with triumph, though his success had never been in question. “Really?” he asked again.

The woman turned back to him, face glowing with warmth. Her voice was tempered and richend by deep, intense feeling. “Yes. The astrariums, when solved, lead us to buried, ancient treasure. But I’ve already got my ancient treasure. You.”

It was Solas’s turn to snort while the woman smirked at his expense. “Touche, Inquisitor.”

Giggling, they meandered towards her quarters.


End file.
